UC-NRLF 


B    3    3M2 


IRISH  POEMS 


By 
Arthur  Stringer 


Tork 

Mitchell  Kennerley 
1911 


Copyright  191 1  by 
Mitchell   Kennerley 


ofj.  j..  Lit  tie  &  lots  Co. 

wrtb  Street 
Neto  T»rk 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PIPE  PLAYER  9 

IN  THE  TROPICS  1 1 

CLOIDNA  OF  THE  ISLE  16 

SPRING  IN  THE  CITY  1 8 

THE  HALF-DOOR  20 

I'LL  NIVER  Go  HOME  AGAIN  22 

NORA  24 

CAOCH  O'LYNN  26 

STORMY  EILY  28 

CHILDER'  30 

THE  MEETING  32 

THE  GOOD  MAN  34 

EXILE  35 

MEMORIES  36 

AT  THE  WHARF  END  38 

THE  RANDYVOO  39 

THE  KELT  A  DREAMER  Is  41 

MACGlLLIGAN's  GROVE  4- 

THE  MAN  OF  MEANS  44 

RIVALS  45 


266969 


Contents 


PAGE 

THE  BLATHERSKITE  47 

WHISTLIN'  DANNIE  48 

SOFT  WAYS  49 

OULD  DOCTOR  MA'GINN  5 1 

THE  PHILANDERER  52 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  DREAMS  55 

MAN  TO  MAN  56 

MESSAGES  57 

THE  THRUSHES  59 

O'HARA  THE  BIRD-MAN  60 

THE  COMETHER  6 1 

THE  THROUBLE  62 

THE  SNOWBIRD  63 

SOUPLE  TERENCE  64 

THE  SISTERHOOD  65 

THE  WAY  WID  SINGIN'  67 

MOTHER  IRELAND  68 

LOST  SONGS  69 

WIMMEN  FOLK  70 

THE  THROUBLIN'  THINGS  7 1 

THE  OULD  WORLD'S  WAY  72 

THE  SEEKERS  73 

POSSESSION  74 

NOREEN  OF  BALLYBREE  75 

THE  PRIDE  OF  ERIN  77 

WIMMEN  80 


Contents 


THE  SIRENS  81 

THE  DISCOVERY  83 

THE  DANCING  DAYS  85 

BY  THE  SEA  WALL  87 

THE  EVENING  Up  89 

THE  WISE  MAN  91 

THE  END  93 

THE  OLD  MEN  94 

THE  MORNIN'S  MORNIN'  96 

THE  OLD  HOUND  98 

SAYS  OLD  DOCTOR  MA'GINN  100 

THE  Fo' CASTLE  SAGE  101 

THE  WEARING  OF  THE  GREEN  103 

MOISTY  WEATHER  104 

WINGS  105 

THE  WIFE  107 

BARNEY  CREEGAN  no 


i 


A  FOREWORD 

T  will  be  obvious  to  even  the  more  casual 
reader  of  this  volume  that  the  three-score 
dramatic  lyrics  between  its  covers  are  not  the 
utterance  of  one  particular  individual.  To  the 
more  critical  reader  it  will  be  equally  obvious 
that  the  dialect  I  have  made  use  of  is  not  the 
dialect  of  one  particular  Irish  county.  The 
entire  volume,  I  might  venture  to  say,  is  de 
signed  more  as  a  small  gallery  of  small  por 
traits,  or  to  be  more  exact,  as  a  record  of 
fleeting  impressions  caught  from  the  West  of 
Ireland  character — as  often  in  exile,  confess 
edly,  as  in  the  midst  of  its  native  hills. 

There  is  "sorra"  need  for  me  here  to  dwell 
on  either  the  loveableness  or  the  humorous  ir 
responsibility  of  this  character,  on  either  the 
whimsical  gayeties  or  the  nostalgic  mournful- 
ness  of  these  people  who  were,  and  are,  partly 
my  own  people.  But  in  my  attempted  recountai 
of  these  impressions  I  must  confess  to  a  certain 
compromise.  I  have  again  and  again,  in  the 
matter  of  the  written  word,  been  coerced  into 


Foreword 


something  not  unlike  a  sacrifice  of  actuality  on 
the  altar  of  literary  convention.  This  has  been 
due,  not  so  much  to  the  consciousness  that  a 
"foreignized"  and  laboriously  achieved  spell 
ing  is  as  exasperating  to  the  eye  as  it  is  ex 
hausting  to  the  mind,  but  more  to  the  fact  that 
the  dialect  of  one  Irish  county  or  countryside  is, 
more  Hibernico,  usually  a  contradiction  of  the 
dialect  of  its  neighboring  county  or  countryside. 
And  further,  what  is  commonly  spoken  of  as 
the  Irishman's  "brogue,"  it  must  be  confessed, 
is  a  speech  or  method  of  speech  much  too 
elusive  to  be  captured  and  tied  down  to  an  ink 
pot.  The  imitation  brogue,  the  near-brogue, 
the  brogue  which  "belaves"  a  "Quane"  might 
"swape"  a  flock  of  forty  "shape"  inside  of  a 
"wake's"  time,  is  a  creation  peculiar  to  the 
vaudeville-boards  and  the  joke-monger's  col 
umn.  It  is  a  speech  that  is  about  as  common 
in  Connaught  and  her  sister  counties  as  snakes 
are  in  Ireland.  Even  the  broadening  of  the 
diphthong  "ea"  into  the  long  "a"  is  too  prone 
to  exaggeration.  Yet  there  are  tricks  of  speech 
so  characteristic  and  so  persistent  they  cannot 
be  ignored.  One,  for  instance,  is  the  flattening 
of  the  dental  digraph  "th"  into  something  ap 
proaching  a  "d."  To  write  it  down  always  as  a 

6 


Foreword 


"d"  is  a  somewhat  clumsy  artifice.     It  remains, 
however,  the  only  adequate  device  for  the  ex 
pression  of  that  quaintly  hardening  tendency 
which    translates    "with"    into    something    so 
closely  akin  to  "wid."    Still  another  practice  is 
the  lowering,  the  "de-dentalating,"  of  the  sibil- 
lant,  readily  recognized  in  the  "smile"  which 
becomes  "shmile"  and  the  "street"  which  must 
be  recorded  as  "shtreet,"  though  here  again  the 
inserted  uh"  is  a  somewhat  awkward  instrument 
to  denote  that  tenuous  rustle  of  breath  with 
which  Erin  wafts  out  its  hissing  consonant.     In 
the  same  way,  the  tendency  to  express  the  soft 
ened  "of"  by  uav"  may  not  always  be  entirely 
satisfying;  yet,  when  it  comes  to  a  matter  of 
ink  and  paper,  the  resort  to  it  seems  the  only 
reasonable  avenue  out  of  the  difficulty.     And 
beyond  this  there  are  many  more  difficulties,  dif 
ficulties  of  idiom,  and  of  mental  attitude.   And 
as  an  excuse  for  a  newcomer's  invasion  of  that 
land  of  brogues  and  accents  and  intonations, 
which  are  as  elusive  as  quicksilver  even  while 
they  are  as  penetrating  as  turf-smoke  and  as 
soft  as  a  bog-land  breeze,  I  can  only  add  that  it 
is  a  field  in  which  there  are  many  anomalies  and 
no  finalities. 

A.  S. 


IRISH    POEMS 


THE  PIPE  PLAYER 


PIPER-MAN,  Piper-Man, 

•*-          Put  tin'  into  Song 
Love  and  tears  that  make  us  turn 
As  we  pass  along! 


Piper-Man,  Piper-Man, 

Where's  your  sense  av  shame, 
P'radin'  wid  unholy  noise 

Things  we'd  nivcr  name? 


Piper-Man,  Piper-Man, 
Whin  the  tears  are  told, 

What  have  ye  tf  take  the  place 
AIJ  the  things  ye've  sold? 

9 


Irish  Poems 


But  Piper- Alan,  Pi  per- Alan, 

Is  it,  faith,  a  loss, 
Passin'  us  your  broken  dreams 

Whin  your  palm  we  cross? 
Givin'  us  your  achin'  heart 

For  the  gold  we  toss? 


10 


Arthur  Stringer 


IN  THE  TROPICS 

(O  to  be  in  Ireland  wid  me  youth  again, 
Half  a  world  from  palm-three,  half  a  world 

from  this! 

O  to  be  in  Ireland,  where  the  coolinf  rain 
Falls   across   the  green   hills   like   a   woman's 

kiss!) 


u 


P  and  down  the  withered  turf 

Here  I  pace  the  ould  Parade, 
Listenin'  to  the  Tropic  surf 

Where  the  Band-stand  music  brayed. 


Here  the  gintry  go  and  come, 

Shlow  beneath  a  milk-white  moon 

Round  as  yonder  kettle-drum 

Throbbin'  out  its  home-sick  toon. 

Round  and  round  they  drift  and  pass, 
Thro*  the  palms  they  wheel  and  roam, 

Where  the  Regimintal  Brass 

Plays  its  wishtful  songs  av  Home. 


Irish  Poems 


Shlow  and  stately  as  the  dead, 
On  they  move  from  light  to  light, 

Soljer-men  in  glarin'  red, 

Ladies  in  their  ghostly  white. 

Long  I've  watched  thim  as  they  pass 
Where  the  sea-wall  shmells  av  musk 

And  the  palm-fronds  green  as  brass 
Whisper  thro'  the  Thradc-swept  dusk. 

Long  I've  marked  thim  come  and  go 
Where  the  swayin'  lantherns  shine, 

Where  the  white  electhrics  glow, 

Where  the  Band-stand  cornets  whine; 

Where  the  trombones  pulse  and  blare 
Wid  some  shlow  and  stately  toon, 

Where  the  sea-wind  shtirs  the  air 
And  the  coral  beaches  croon. 

Long  I've  watched  thim  here  alone, 
Till  the  palms  and  music  seem 

Ghosts  av  things  I've  scarcely  known, 
Ghosts  that  thrail  across  a  dream; 

And  the  soft  and  shleepy  Cross, 
Shinin'  from  its  shleepy  dome, 

Seems  to  tell  thim  av  their  loss, 
Half  a  world  away  from  Home. 
12 


Arlhur  Strinqcr 


But  I've  left  no  Home  behind, 

And  there's  naught  beyont  the  Sea, 

Naught  av  kith  nor  wimmen-kind 
Waitin'  for  the  likes  av  me. 

Yet  I  listen,  wid  the  ache 

Av  a  man  who's  known  his  dead, 

While  the  ould  toons  shtir  and  wake 
Things  I've  put  beyont  me  head. 

And  I  watch  thim  wid  a  blur 

Creepin'  thro'  the  ould  Parade, 
Where  the  cliff-palms  wake  and  shtir 

In  the  soft  and  sultry  Thrade. 

(O  to  be  in  Ireland  where  the  cool  rain  falls, 
I There  the  meltin'  green  shlopes  meet  the  ten 
der  light, 

Where  across  the  whin  the  tawney  owlet  calls, 
Where  the  settlin'  grouse-crow  tells  av  comin' 
night!) 

Life  I've  lived,  and  Youth  I've  had, 

Yet  no  home  is  home  to  me: 
Faith,  I've  loved  it,  good  and  bad, 

Lane  and  city,  land  and  seal 

'3 


Irish  Poems 


But  I  sthill  must  take  me  way 

To  the  ends  av  all  the  earth, 
Fine  me  port,  and  drain  me  day, 

Askin'  what  the  game  is  worth. 

So  I  watch  the  gintry  walk, 

Heart-sick  wimmen  white  as  foam, 

Heat-sick  faces  white  as  chalk, 
Half  a  world  away  from  Home. 

And  I  hark  the  sad  ould  croon 

Av  the  swingin'  Tropic  Sea, 
Till  the  palm  and  Cross  and  moon 

Seem  but  ghosts  av  things  to  me. 

And  I  wander  thro'  a  dream, 

And  the  men  I  walk  beside 
Nothin'  more  than  spirits  seem — 

And  I  know  me  youth  has  died! 

— Died  and  went  this  many  a  year 

With  a  gerrl  they  buried  deep 
Where  the  hawthorn's  growin'  near 

And  the  coolin'  lough-winds  creep! 

O  to  be  in  Ireland  where  that  blue  lough  lies! 
O  to  hear  the  home-like  clap  av  pigeon's  wing! 
O  to  see  the  boa-lands  greet  the  mornin'  skies! 
O  to  be  in  Ireland,  waitin1  for  the  Spring! 

H 


Arthur  Stringer 


But  III  niver  more  be  seem'  my  ould  Home, 
Niver  hear  the  ould  voice  callin'  thro'  the  rain, 
Niver   see    the   Headlands   flashin'    ivid   their 

foam, 
And  niver  win  me  lost  youth  back  to  me  again! 


Irish  Poems 


CLOIDNA  OF  THE  ISLE 

T  HAD   me  bit   av   hay-land   callin'    for  the 

scythe, 
When    who   should   hurry  hillward,   wishtful- 

loike  and  blithe, 
But  Cloidna  av  the  Isle,  that  gerrl  av  pink  an' 

white, 
Wid   eyes  av  Irish  blue  an'  hair  as  black  as 

night!     .     .     . 

I  had  me  hay  to  mow  an'  gather  into  rick, 
But  when  ye  talk  wid  handsome  gerrls,  och, 

time  goes  quick! 

"Aroo,"  says  she  to  me,  wid  her  slow  an  meltin' 

shmile, 
*Tm  lookin'  for  a  man,  this  many  an'  many  a 

mile ! 
"Me  hay's  all  ripe,"  says  she;  "whativer  will 

I  do 
Widout  a  bit  av  help?"     .     .     .     Bedad,  her 

eye  was  blue ! 

16 


Arthur  Stringer 


Och,  what's  the  use  av  moilin'  till  your  life's 

all  done  I 

An*  what's  a  rick  or  two,  beside  a  bit  av  fun ! 
I  swung  me  singin'  scythe  thro'  Cloidna's  fields 

o'  hay, 
An'  wid  it  swung  me  singin'  heart  each  livelong 

day, 
An'  on  me,  iv'ry  swath,  she  shmiled  wid  tender 

eyes     .     .     . 
Faith,  when  you're  wid  a  handsome  woman, 

how  time  flies! 


Irish  Poems 


SPRING  IN  THE  CITY 


'S  a  lad  sellin'  bird-whistles  made 
out  av  lead; 
There's  a  Greek  boy  wid  vilet-clumps  big  as 

your  head! 
There's  a  promise  av  buds  on  the  patient  ould 

trees; 
There's  a  whisper  av  Spring  in  the   shmoke- 

laden  breeze! 
There's  a  haze  on  the  house-tops,  a  croon  in  the 

air; 
There's  a  hand-organ  throbbin'  through  Madi 

son  Square; 

And  the  childer'  are  dancin'  on  cobble  and  flag, 
And  the  Avenoo's  thrilled  wid  the  horn  from 

a  drag! 

There's  a  wee  sparrow  chirpin1  as  glad  as  a 

lark, 

And  daffodils  show  in  the  beds  av  the  Park, 

18 


drthur  Stringer 


And  the  gcrrls  have  such  posies  and  pinks  on 
their  heads 

Ye'd  be  dreamin'  their  hats  were  all  hyacinth- 
beds! 

There's  a  rumble  av  wheels  and  the  roar  av  a 
car, 

And  the  patther  av  hoofs,  and  the  odor  of  tar! 

And  the  riveters,  high  on  yon  sky-scraper  sills, 

Are  all  rappin'  and  tappin'   like  wood-pecker 
bills; 

And  there's  house-windys  open  and  doors  slam- 
min'  shut, 

And  there's  clatther  and  dust,  and  the  Divil 
knows  what! 

But  in  faith  I  would  give  it,  the  first  and  the 

last, 
For  wan  glimpse  av  the  ould  Springs  over  and 

past, 
For  the  call  av  the  cuckoo,  the  peewit's  ould 

cry, 
And  the  purple  av  moorlands  against  the  ould 

sky, 
And  the  lough,  and  the  heather,  and  the  valleys 

av  green, 

And    the    old    shleepy    hill-town    without    a 
traneen  1 

19 


Irish  Poems 


THE   HALF-DOOR 

'TpHAT  whin-bred  gerrl  in  heat  or  cold 

Would  iver  leave  the  door  swung  wide, 
Faith,  wide  as  in  her  home  av  old 

Where  hares  wanst  played  and  peewits  cried. 

"Ye're  in  a  throublin'  city  now, 

And  och,  it  seems  the  city's  way 
To  steal  and  pilfer,  Gawd  knows  how," 

They  told  her  twinty  times  a  day. 

"Faith,  I  could  niver  ate  nor  sleep 

Widout  a  bit  av  sun,"  says  she; 
"For  sure  at  home  we  used  to  keep 

The  half-door  wide  as  wide  could  be." 


That  whin-bred  gerrl,  as  gerrls  have  done, 
Full  wide  and  open  kept  her  door, 

And  thought  to  find  her  bit  av  sun 

As  home-sick  gerrls  have  thried  before. 
20 


Arthur  Stringer 


And  faith,  there  soon  went  thraipsin'  thro', 

Widout  a  sash  or  bar  to  part, 
A  city  lad  wid  eyes  av  blue, 

Who  left  a  gerrl  wid  achin'  heart. 

Ay,  left  a  girleen  av  the  moors 
Shut  in  widout  her  thrace  av  sun, 

And  wandered  on  to  other  doors 
As  other  laughin'  lads  have  done. 

"At  home,"  she  sobbed,  "there's  half-doors  in 
Each  singin'  heart  and  cottage  wall — 

But  in  the  town  wid  all  its  sin 
Ye  can't  be  free  at  all,  at  all!" 


21 


Irish  Poems 


I'LL  NIVER  GO  HOME  AGAIN 

/'//  niver  go  home  again, 
Home  to  the  ould  sad  hills, 
Home  through  the  ould  soft  rain, 
Where  the  curlew  calls  and  thrills! 


I  thought  to  find  the  ould  wee  house, 
Wid  the  moss  along  the  wall  ! 
And  I  thought  to  hear  the  crackle-grouse, 
And  the  brae-birds  call! 

And  I  sez,  I'll  find  the  glad  wee  burn, 

And  the  bracken  in  the  glen, 
And  the  fairy-thorn  beyont  the  turn, 

And  the  same  ould  men  ! 

But  the  ways  I'd  loved  and  walked,  avick, 

Were  no  more  home  to  me, 
Wid  their  sthreets  and  turns  av  starin'  brick, 

And  no  ould  face  to  see  ! 


22 


drthur  Stringer 


And  the  ould  glad  ways  I'd  helt  in  mind, 
Loikc  the  home  av  Moira  Bawn, 

And  the  ould  green  turns  I'd  dreamt  to  find, 
They  all  were  lost  and  gone! 

And  the  white  shebeen  beside  the  leap 
Where  the  racin'  wathers  swirled 

And  the  burnin'  kelp-shmoke  used  to  creep — 
'Tis  now  another  world! 

And  all  thrampled  out  long  years  ago 

By  feet  I've  niver  seen 
Are  the  fairy-rings  that  used  to  show 

Along  the  low  boreen! 

And  the  bairns  that  romped  by  Tullagh  Burn 
Whin  they  saw  me  sthopped  their  play — 

Through  a  mist  av  tears  I  tried  to  turn 
And  ghost-like  creep  away! 

And  I'll  niver  go  home  again! 
Home  to  the  ould  lost  years, 
Home  where  the  soft  warm  rain 
Drifts  hike  the  drip  av  tears! 


Irish  Poems 


NORA 

is  it,  now,  me  Nora 
Will  niver  shpeak  av  Hugh? 
Will  niver  pass  a  joke  wid  him 
The  way  she  used  to  do? 

Toime  was  that  gerrl'd  blather 
Av  Hughie,  noon  and  night ! 

Now  iv'ry  time  he  swings  the  gate 
Her  face  goes  starin'  white! 

I've  spied  no  row  nor  ruction; 

They  meet  as  friend  wid  friend; 
And  still,  I'm  toldt,  he  walks  with  her 

Beyondt  the  boreen's  end. 

Fve  done  me  best  by  Nora; 

That  gerrl's  as  thrue  as  day, 
Wid  all  her  big  and  wishtful  eyes, 

Wid  all  her  bashful  way! 

24 


Arthur  Stringer 


But  white  before  me  turf-fire 

She  sits  widout  a  word, 
This  gerrl  av  mine  who  used  to  sing 

As  mad  as  any  bird! 

Faith,  since  she  lost  her  muther, 

I've  left  that  colleen  free 
To  come  and  go — but  times  there  are 

When  men  are  slow  to  see ! 

For  wanst  I  spied  her  rockin* 

And  sobbin,  here,  alone — 
Now,  can  there  be  some  throuble  up 

Her  muther  might  '*ue  known? 


I  risk  Poems 


CAOCH  O'LYNN 

,  here  I  am  wid  arms  and  legs, 
Wid  all  me  thravellin's  far  from  home ! 
Wid  all  me  curlin'  seas  to  cross 

And  all  me  clamorin'  world  to  roam! 

Wid  all  me  jiggin',  port  to  port, 

Carousin',  rovin',  round  the  earth — 

But  wanst  the  thing's  been  said  and  done, 
What's  all  me  mad  adventurin'  worth? 

For  here  lies  little  Caoch  O'Lynn, 

Who's  niver  fared  from  bed  nor  house; 

Wid  crooked  leg  and  twisted  spine, 
As  chirpy  as  a  grackle-grouse ! 

He  tells  me  av  the  thrips  he  takes; 

The  landin'-parties  wanst  he  led, 
The  foreign  ports  so  spiced  and  fine, 

Betwixt  the  spindles  av  his  bed! 
26 


Arthur  Stringt 


He  tells  me  av  the  secret  thrail 

That  leads  to  some  ould  Castle  stair 

Where  shleeps  a  Princess  sad  and  pale 
Wid  half  a  mile  av  golden  hair  I 

He  tells  me  av  Tangier  and  Fez, 

Av  Cartagena,  Suakim, 
And  all  the  flashin,  lashin'  seas 

That  iver  wait  and  wave  for  him! 

From  Chiny  round  to  Spanish  Main 
He  sings  and  thravels — in  his  mind — 

A  King  of  Dreams  who's  clean  forgot 
The  crooked  back  he's  left  behind! 


27 


Irish  Poems 


STORMY  EILY 

(Said  Kildree  Tim:  "There's  niver  words 

Betwixt  me  wife  an'  me! 
Aroo,  we  live  hike  matin'  birds, 

Widout  a  peck!"  says  he; 
"Aye,  niver  a  row  or  ruction,  lad, 
Me  mild-shpoke  mate  an'  I've  wanst  had!") 

C INCE  first  I've  loved  me  Eily 
^    We've  wrangled,  walked  away, 
An'  fought  an'  kissed  an'  fallen  out 
An'  stormed  be  night  an'  day! 

Faith,  since  I've  first  loved  Eily, 

On  throubled  seas  I've  swung! 
That  woman's  two-thirds  made  av  fire, 

An'  wan-third  made  av  tongue! 

But  then  she  ends  in  weepin', 

An'  sobbin'  I'm  to  blame — 
('Tis  th'  fire  that  makes  wan  quick  to  fight 

Drives  wan  to  love  the  same!) 
28 


Arthur  Stringer 


For  next  she's  wrapped  me,  shmilin' 
Like  the  Lord's  own  sky  above, 

In  the  softest,  warmest,  maddest  arms 
That  iver  ached  wid  love! 


29 


Irish  Poems 


CHILDER' 

^THEY'RE  longin'  for  a  wee  lad 

Up  in  Tullagh  Hail- 
Where  niver  wanst  a  cradle  was, 
An*  niver  child  at  all ! 

They're  shpeakin'  all  in  whispers, 
They're  threadin'  on  their  toes, 

An'  tin-and-twinty  sewin'-gerrls 
Is  thrimmin'  satin  clothes! 

A  deal  av  fuss  an'  feathers 

Gintry  makes,  aroo, 
Wid  all  their  frightened  wimmen-folk 

When  wan  to  wan  is  two ! 

They've  twinty-hundred  acres 

Hid  be  jealous  wall — 
Yet  niver  throd  a  little  foot 

Thro'  lonely  Tullagh  Hall ! 

30 


Arthur  Stringer 


But  here  beneath  the  ould  thatch 

Childer*  come  so  fast, 
In  faith,  we  put  the  first  t'  bed 

For  room  to  rock  the  last! 


Irish  Poems 


THE  MEETING 

T'D  niver  seen  the  face  av  her; 
^      And  she  knew  naught  av  me. 
She'd  fared  that  day  from  Shela  Hills, 
And  I'd  swung  in  from  sea. 

It  may  have  been  the  warm,  soft  night, 
The  soft  and  moitherin'  moon! 

It  may  have  been  the  lonely  streets 
And  the  ould  sea's  lonely  chune ! 

It  may  have  all  been  doomed,  in  faith, 

For  many  an'  many  a  year, 
That  soft  and  mad  and  wishtful  night 

Without  a  laugh  or  tear! 

She  helt  me  face  betwixt  her  hands 

And  out  av  wishtful  eyes 
For  long  she  watched  me  sunburnt  face 

Wid  wonder  and  surprise. 

32 


Arthur  Stringer 


For  long  against  her  quiet  breast 
She  belt  me  throubled  head; 

And  when  I  kisst  her  shmilin'  mouth, 
"Ye'll  ne'er  come  back!"  she  said. 

And  out  she  fared  to  Shela  Hills, 
And  I  swung  back  to  sea : 

But  och,  the  ache  and  loneliness 
That  wan  night  left  wid  me! 


Irish  Poems 


THE    GOOD    MAN 


TV/f"  ACKILLRAY  was  a  dour  man, 
1V1     Workin'  night  and  day, 
Thryin'  to  build  a  grand  house, 
And  frettin'  life  away. 

When  he'd  built  his  fine  house, 

High  beyont  the  furze, 
Not  a  gerrl  in  Kindree 

Sought  to  make  it  hers ! 

II 

Larry  was  a  young  de'il, 

Idlin'  youth  away, 
A-pipin'  and  philanderin* 

And  laughin'  all  the  day. 

Niver  was  a  colleen 

Trod  the  Kindree  sod 
But  homeless  would  have  fared  forth 

At  homeless  Larry's  nod! 

34 


Arthur  Stringer 


EXILE 

TN  the  dead  av  the  night,  acushla, 
^       When  the  new  big  house  is  still, 
I  think  av  the  childer'  thick  as  hares 
In  the  ould  home  under  the  hill! 

And  I  think  av  the  times,  alanna, 
That  we  harkened  the  peewit's  cry, 

And  how  we  ran  to  the  broken  gate 
When  the  piper  av  Doon  went  by! 

In  the  dead  of  the  year,  acushla, 

When  me  wide  new  fields  are  brown, 

I  think  av  that  wee  ould  house, 

At  the  edge  av  the  ould  gray  town! 

I  think  av  the  rush-lit  faces, 

Where  the  room  and  loaf  was  small: 
Yet  the  new  years  seem  the  lean  years, 

And  the  ould  years,  best  av  all! 

35 


Irish  Poems 


MEMORIES 

F  my  ould  loves,  of  their  ould  ways, 
I  sit  an'  think,  these  bitther  days. 


(I've  kissed  —  'gainst  rason  an'  'gainst  rhyme- 
More  mouths  than  one  in  my  mad  time!) 

Of  their  soft  ways  and  words  I  dream, 
But  far  off  now,  in  faith,  they  seem. 

Wid  betther  lives,  wid  betther  men, 
They've  all  long  taken  up  again  ! 

For  me  an'  mine  they're  past  an'  done  — 
Aye,  all  but  one  —  yes,  all  but  one  ! 

Since  I  kissed  her  'neath  Tullagh  Hill 
That  one  gerrl  stays  close  wid  me  still. 

Och  1  up  to  mine  her  face  still  lifts, 

And  round  us  still  the  white  May  drifts; 

36 


Arthur  Stringer 


And  her  soft  arm,  in  some  ould  way, 
Is  here  beside  me,  night  an*  day; 

But,  faith,  'twas  her  they  buried  deep, 
Wid  all  that  love  she  couldn't  keep. 

Aye,  deep  an1  cold,  in  Killinkere, 
This  many  a  year — this  many  a  year! 


37 


Irish  Poems 


AT  THE  WHARF  END 

"V^E'LL  weep  it  out,  and  sleep  it  out, 

Faith,  forget  me  in  a  day! 
Ye'll    talk   it   out,    and  walk   it   out — 
Yis,  I'll  be  long  awayl 

But  what  a  heavin'  shoulder  this 

To  rock  a  lad  to  sleep ! 
Och,  me  gerrl,  that  one  kiss, 

Ye  knew  it  couldn't  keep ! 

Some  cry  it  out,  and  sigh  it  out, 

But  we'll  forgit  the  ache ! 
Ye'll  laugh  it  off,  and  chaff  it  off, 

And  learn  to  give  and  take! 

And  that's  the  gray  ship  waitin'  me — 
Sure,  what's  the  good  o'  tears! 

It's  got  to  be,  and  ought  to  be— 
One  kiss — for  twinty  years! 

38 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE    RANDYVOO 


E  see  thim  thrailin'  in  and  out  wid  niver 
wanst  a  shmile 


I 

W 

At  Fairy-Thorn  or  buddia'  May  that's  scentin' 

many  a  mile; 
I  see  thim  stredin'  in  and  out  wid  salt  tears 

on  their  face, 
For  yon's  the  Acre  av  the  Dead  and  thought  a 

dourish  place, 
Wid  gravestones  thick  as  barley  tops  and  yews 

forninst  the  wall, 
Where  leverocks  soar  and  sing  so  mad,   and 

matin'  cuckoos  call. 

II 

And  dark  it  is,  in  faith,  to  thim  who  hold  the 

place  in  dread, 
And  dour  enough  it  still  may  be  for  thim  who 

know  their  dead; 

39 


I  risk  Poems 


But,  och,   for  me  'tis  still  the  home  av  iv'ry 

singin'  lark 
And  iv'ry  note  and  hawthorn  scent  that  steals 

across  the  dark; 
For  wanst,  where  black  between  the  stones  the 

yew  tree  shadows  hung, 
I  found  and  knew  me  first  love's  kiss,  when  all 

the  world  was  young. 


40 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  KELT  A  DREAMER  IS 

TIT  ID  a  jorum  wanst  under  me  arm,  faith, 

the  thought  av  it 
Could  warm  me  almost  as  though  I  had  drunk 

down  the  lot  av  it ! 

Me  mind  could  half  burn  wid  the  fire  av  it; 
Widout  all  the  sting  and  the  tire  av  it 
I'd  swim  wid  the  dream  and  desire  av  it! 

When  down  be  ould  Donnievale  Wall   I  sat 

waitin'  and  dreamin1 
'Twasn't  her  when  she  came;  'twas  the  watchin' 

and  longin'  and  seemin' ! 
'Tis  love,  says  I,  but  you  tire  av  it; 
'Tis  only  in  dream  the  desire  av  it 
Outstays  both  the  ache  and  the  fire  av  itl 

But  now  that  I've  wasted  and  lived  through  the 

last  av  it, 
Aye,  now  that  it's  lost,  how  I  dream  av  the 

past  av  itl 

For  broodin'  av  Death,  and  the  dire  av  it, 
I'd  now  face  Hell  and  the  fire  av  it, 
For  me  ould  mad  youth  and  the  mire  av  it! 

41 


Irish  Poems 


MAC  GILLIGAN'S  GROVE 

OCH,  me  hearin'  is  failin'  an'  me  eyesight 
is  bad; 

And  I  haven't  a  leg  for  the  stratspeys  I  had, 
Nor  the  tirrl  av  a  bow  that  I  loved  as  a  lad! 

Och,  me  ould  head  now,  sure,  'tis  bald  to  the 

crown, 

An'  I  walk  wid  a  limp,  an*  I  look  wid  a  frown, 
An'  me  ould  bones  ache  wid  the  years  they  have 

known ! 

But  wheniver  I  thrail  be  that  bit  av  a  wood 
Where  the  throstles  are  singin'  as  wanst,  too,  I 

could, 
An'  other  lads  stand  where  wanst,  too,  I  stood; 

Wheniver  I  sniff  me  the  buds  on  its  trees, 
Wheniver  the  May-day's  alive  wid  its  bees, 
The   song  of   its   lark,    an'   the   smell    av   its 
breeze; 

42 


Arlhnr  Stringer 


I  shtill  see  a  gerrl  an*  a  shlip  av  a  boy, 
(Such  sayin's  an*  doin's,  cometherin',  coy; 
Such  moitherin'  meetin'  an'  achin'  wid  joy)  — 

They're  shpeakin'  the  same  word  some  other 

lad  said; 
They're  draggin1  me  back  thro'  the  years  that 

are  dead, 
An1  throublin'  an1  mixin'  me  empty  ould  head  I 

An1  that  shtreel  av  a  blatherskite  niver  is  me, 
Says  I  to  meself     .     .     .     then  a  gleek  av  the 

bee 

An'  a  trill  av  the  lark  an'  a  shmell  av  the  tree 
Says  that  ghost  av  a  shtreel  is  the  ghost  av  me! 


43 


Irish  Poems 


THE  MAN  OF  MEANS 

T  'VE  got  me  a  tilloch  av  land; 

I  drink  me  potheen  as  I  may; 
I'm  ten-and-six-stone  as  I  stand, 
And  I  thravel  to  Gleen  in  a  shay! 

I've  gathered  me  pittance  and  more; 

I've  feathered  me  bit  av  a  nest; 
And  they  call  me  the  fr'ind  av  the  poor, 

Me,  needin'  as  much  as  the  rest! 

For  I'd  barther  me  last  stone  av  meal, 
If  wanst  through  the  Ballybree  rain 

She'd  waken  and  whisper  and  steal, 
That  ghost  av  dead  Moira  McShane! 

Aye,  the  lee  and  the  long  av  it  stands, 

That  I'd  give  thim  me  meadow  and  bawn, 

And  me  fool  av  a  shay,  and  me  lands, 
For  that  wisp  av  a  gerrl  that's  gone! 

44 


Arthur  Stringer 


RIVALS 

WID  her  shmile  that  is  wishtful  and  sad, 
Wid  her  hand  folded  close  like  a  wing, 
Wid  her  blue  eyes  so  throubled  and  wide, 
She  waits  for  the  letther  I  bring. 

Wid  a  laugh  and  a  toss  av  the  head 
She  blows  me  a  kiss  from  the  wall; 

But  the  letther  she  holds  to  her  breast, 
And  she's  weepin'  at  nothin'  at  all ! 

And  she'll  sob  and  she'll  brood  on  a  scrawl 
From  this  habbage  gone  many  a  year — 

While  she  stabs  me  wid  kisses  and  shmiles, 
But  crowns  me  not  wanst  wid  a  tear! 


Irish  Poems 


THE  TIME  FOR  LOVE 

WHEN  the  moon  was  the  size  av  a  cart 
wheel, 

And  as  sootherin'  soft  as  cream; 
When  the  lough  lay  strange  wid  the  night-mist, 
And  the  down  was  a  sea  av  dream — 

When  the  voice  av  a  gerrl  was  music, 
And  your  own,  like  a  linnet's  wing, 

Was  fluttherin'  full  av  the  moonlight 
And  the  mad  glad  fire  av  Spring — 

Och,  yon  was  the  time  for  lovin', 
Those  moitherin'  bantherin'  years 

When  I  was  a  Billy-Go-Fister  blade 
And  the  world  was  young,  me  dears! 


46 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  BLATHERSKITE 

OCH,  never  give  your  whole  heart  up — take 
it  from  one  that  knows ! 
The  first  may  seem  a  gooldie,  but  the  second's 

like  a  rose, 
And  kissin'   still  is  kissin',   lad,   from  Antrim 

down  to  Clare, 

And  the  world  is  full  av  women — so  the  divil 
take  the  care ! 

Aye,  kiss  away  their  tears,  me  lad,  and  hold 

them  at  a  song; 
/The  heart  that's  lovin'    lightest  is  the   heartj 

that's  lovin'  long! 
So  leave  the  gerrl  beyont  the  hill,  and  greet  the 

one  above — 
Och,  don't  be  lovin9  women,  lad,  but  just  thry 

lovin'  Love! 


47 


Irish  Poems 


WHISTLIN'  DANNIE 

T^AITH,  such  a  whistler  was  Dannie, 

A-chirrupin'  all  the  day! 
'Twas  more  like  a  thrush  on  the  holm-side 
A-singin'  its  life  away! 

His  thatch  stood  a  sieve  for  the  wather, 
And  his  belly  went  empty  av  bread; 

But  he  made  his  potheen  out  av  Music, 
And  whistled  his  throubles  to  bed! 

And  divil  a  man  did  he  care  for, 

And  divil  a  wife  would  be  take, 
And  divil  a  rag  had  he  wanst  to  his  name- 

But  och,  what  a  chune  he  could  make! 


Arthur  Stringer 


SOFT  WAYS 


A  LANNA,  wh 
*  used  to  be; 


I 
what  a  soft  land  the  Quid  Sod 


The  soft  lush  green  o'  hillsides,  the  soft  en- 

circlin'  sea; 

The  still  and  purple  moorlands,  where  the  plov 
ers  call ; 
The  soft  and  misty  bog-land,   the  lough  and 

purrin'  fall; 
The  heather  on  the  brake-side,  the  sleepy  fields 

o'  hay; 
The   Fairy-Thorn    and   Whin-Bush,    the   gold 

Gorse  and  the  May; 
The  low  wall  and  the  roof  thatch,  so  mild  wid 

moss  and  mold; 
The  soft  cries  av  the  childer',  the  soft  eyes  av 

the  ould; 
And  best  and  last,  the  Springtime,  all  muffled 

wid  the  rain: 
/?///  never  wanst  those  soft  ways  for  me  and 


mine  again! 


49 


Irish  Poems 


II 

This  new  land  has  no  soft  ways;  'tis  mortial 

hard  and  stern; 
'Tis  work  and  fret  your  way  out,  'tis  moilin' 

iv'ry  turn! 
Alanna,   all  the  soft  things  the  throubled  city 

sees 

Is  laughin'  gerrls  wid  soft  mouths  still  swarm- 
in'  thick  as  bees! 
And  me  that's  used  to  ould  ways,  with  nothin' 

else  to  find, 
I  seek  me  out  a  soft  mouth,  and  leave  the  rest 

behind; 
I  seek  the  only  soft  thing  their  frettin'  streets 

can  hold — 
For  women  in  the  New  World  arc  kind  as  in 

the  Ould! 


Arthur  Stringer 


OULD  DOCTOR  MA'GINN 

'  I  VHE  ould  doctor  had  only  wan  failin', 

It  stayed  wid  him,  faith,  till  he  died; 
And  that  was  the  habit  av  wearin' 
His  darby  a  thrifle  wan  side! 

And  twenty  times  daily  'twas  straightened, 

But  try  as  he  would  for  a  year, 
Not  thinkin',  he'd  give  it  a  teether 

A  thrifle  down  over  wan  ear! 

It  sat  him  lop-sided  and  aisy; 

It  throubled  his  kith  and  his  kin — 
But  och,  'twas  the  only  thing  crooked 

About  our  ould  Doctor  Ma'Ginn! 

And  now  that  he's  gone  to  his  Glory — 

Excuse  me,  a  bit  av  a  tear — 
Here's  twenty  to  wan  that  his  halo 

Is  slantin'  down  over  his  ear! 

51 


Irish  Poems 


THE  PHILANDERER 


[,  take  a  shmile  and  give  wan,  and  meet 

a  mouth  and  kiss  wan, 
And  whin  ye're  off  to  furrin  parts  ye'll  niver 

mourn  or  miss  wan! 
But  the  Divil  take  those  gray  eyes  I  left  beyont 

the  sea ! 

Sthill,  if  kissin'  wanst  was  killin' 
We'd  be  dyin'  less  unwillin' — 
But   I  wonder  if  that  wistful  gerrl  is  waitin' 
there  for  me ! 

II 

Aye,  take  your  kiss  and  keep  it  and  draw  your 

latch  and  leave  it, 
But  niver  say  the  last  word  or  all  your  life  ye'll 

grieve  it — 
The  gerrl  beyont  the  wather  is  the  gerrl  beyont 

your  care ! 

52 


Arthur  Stringer 


Sure,  some  other  mouth  she'll  find  her, 
Wid  as  sootherin'  ways  to  blind  her— 
Yet  I'm  thinkin'  av  those  ould  eyes,  those  gray 

eye*  watchin'  there! 

And  I'm  dreamin'  av  a  waitin'  gerrl  with  sea- 
mist  on  her  hair! 


Ill 

If  ye  are  cold  wid  wimmen,  'tis  thrue  in  law 

and  letther, 
They'll  lave  ye  wid  their  moitherin',  and  learn 

to  love  ye  betther! 
So  niver  go  the  whole  lingth    ...    but  keep 

your  fancy  free! 
Och,  if  she'd  only  been  afraid; 
If  only  she'd  not  clung  and  sthayed, 
That  gerrl  and  all  her  gray  eyes  would  not  be 

pesterin'  me! 


IV 

Few  wimmen  love  a  month  long,  and  most,  in 

faith,  a  minute ! 
But  when  SHE  gave  her  mouth  up  her  pleadin' 

soul  was  in  it! 

53 


Irish  Poems 


A  heap  av  tears  and  throuble,  sure,  this  kissin' 

brings  to  some! 

But  niver  such  a  shlip  again     .     .     . 
And  niver  such  a  lip  again, 
Wid   all  these  calm-eyed  wimmen  that's  kiss 

and  go  and  come, 

Wid  all  these  laughin'  furrin  mouths  I'm  takin' 
nothin'  from ! 


54 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  DREAMS 

T  DREAM  av  the  good  days  gone, 
^       Av  the  luck  I  still  might  find; 
But  the  lurin'-most  times  these  eyes  look  on 
Are  the  years  left  far  behind! 

Aroo,  how  a  Kelt  heart  clings 

To  the  Dreamin'  and  not  the  truth! 

How  it  harps  on  the  ould  good  ways  and  sings 
In  the  teeth  av  its  wasted  youth ! 

We  thravel  too  early  or  late 

For  the  shpot  where  the  sunlight  glowed; 
And  it's  niver  the  place  we  watch  and  wait 

That  the  rainbow  meets  the  road! 


55 


Irish  Poems 


MAN  TO  MAN 

'V^E'LL  find  two  kinds  av  wimmen,  lad, 

When  ye  have  aged  a  bit; 
And  faix,  they're  all  not  good  nor  bad — 
And  that's  the  worst  av  it! 

Ye'll  find  some  wimmen  longin'  so 

For  love,  lad,  if  ye  would! 
Ye  know  it  well,  and  whilst  ye  know 

Ye  can't,  and  niver  could ! 

And  some  ye'll  kiss  who  sthill  stay  cold; 

Aye,  thim  who  might  and  won't— 
And  thim  ye'd  walk  through  Hell  to  hold, 

And  love,  because  they  don't! 


Arthur  Stringer 


MESSAGES 

T  N  faith,  I  knew  av  wireless  talk 
This  twinty  years  and  more: 
Widout  a  sign,  widout  a  word, 
As  I  passed  Sheela's  door, 

That  gerrl  could  send  a  message  clear 

Past  iv'ry  gapin'  head! 
Ay,  past  their  ring  av  watchin'  eyes 

I'd  know  what  Sheela  said! 

I'd  read  each  message  sent  from  her 

At  sixty  rod  away: 
uOch,  meet  me  out  be  Tullagh  Hill!" 

As  plain  as  words  could  say! 

"In  faith  I  will!"  I'd  answer  back, 
Wid  but  wan  look  or  two; 

"And  all  me  heart  is  achin'  sore 
Wid  all  me  love  for  you!" 

57 


Irish  Poems 


Or  passin'  in  a  side-car, 
Wid  all  her  haughty  folk, 

Her  soul  would  up  and  say  to  me 
As  plain  as  tho'  she  spoke: 

"They  pesther  me  wid  watchin', 

They  cross  me  ivry  turn, 
But  soul  and  body  I'll  be  yours 
This  night  be  Tullagh  Burn!" 


Afthuf  Stringer 


THE  THRUSHES 


CH,  wee  thrush  a-thirstin'  to  sing  out 

Such  music  an'  sootherin'  song, 
Such  heart-breakin'  longin'  to  wring  out, 

Such  swearin'  the  world's  all  wrong- 
Faith,  all  the  lone  heart  that  ye  fling  out 
Should  be  lovin'  a  whole  life  long! 

II 

Oh,  wood-thrush,  I  listen  an*  listen, 
For  a  song  from  yon  wee  nest  above. 

Since  matin'  your  music  I'm  missin', 

For  there's  nothin'  left  out  to  sing  of — 

the  lip  that  ye' II  never  see  kissin' 
Is  sin  gin'  fo  river  of  love! 


59 


Irish  Poems 


O'HARA  THE  BIRD-MAN 

HpOMORROW  they're  hangin'  O'Hara  av 
Glenn, 

For  a  Fenian  or  two  as  was  kilt  in  a  fight. 
O'Hara  the  Bird-Man's  to  hang  from  a  tree 

For  a  bit  av  a  killin'  he  did  over-night ! 

There's  sorra  hope  left  if  they're  stringin'  up 

lads 
Wid  a  sowl  like  O'Hara's,  that's  saying  the 

least— 

Och,  what  a  mistake  to  be  hangin'  a  man 
So  fond  av  each  little  wee  birdie  and  beast! 


60 


/trthur  Stringer 


THE  COMETHER 

^VfK'VE  not  a  traneen,  nor  a  foot  like  a 

queen/' 

Said  Creina  to  Oonagh  McCaulter; 
"And  I'm  thinkin'  it  queer  that  twice  in  wan 

year 
Ye're  leadin'  a  man  to  the  altar!" 

She  heard  Oonagh  say  in  her  shleepy  soft  way: 

'Tis  niver  a  kiss,  nor  a  sigh! 
Nor  even  a  shmile  nor  a  face,  be  a  mile, 
But  the  Come-Hither  Look  in  the  eye!" 


61 


Irish  Poems 


THE  THROUBLE 

OCH,  why  should  I  think  av  that  shlip  av  a 
gerrl, 

Av  that  soft  little  whisp  av  a  thing? 
Och,  why  should  she  throuble  a  ranger  like  me, 
Who's  thraveled  and  taken  me  fling? 

Aroo,  and  a  pea  is  a  mite  av  a  thing, 

Tho'  shut  in  your  shoe  and  'twill  shmart! 

But  a  mite  av  a  gerrl  will  throuble  ye  more 
When  she's  tight  on  the  tip  av  your  heart! 


62 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  SNOWBIRD 

TILL  wid  his  wee  ould  bosom  warm, 

Och,  mad  as  hare  or  hatter, 
He  pipes  and  jigs  through  iv'ry  storm — 
So  what  can  Winter  matter? 

Faith,  laugh  and  leave  your  tears  behind, 
And  sing  thro'  toil  and  throuble, — 

There's  still  a  kind  of  beln    blind, 
That's  more  than  seein'  double! 


Irish  Poems 


SOUPLE  TERENCE 

I 

T  'M  wishful  to  live  as  the  story-books  say, 
•••      I'm  achin'  to  love  as  they  loved  av  old; 
I  want  to  be  drunken  and  swimmin'  in  bliss, 
And  weepin'  and  sighin'  and  ravin'  away 
Loike  the  old  tales  said  and  the  old   songs 

told— 
But,  faith,  and  how  do  ye  love  like  this? 

II 

IVe  loved  in  me  day,  and  I'm  hopin'  to  more; 
I've  taken  me  chance,  and  I've  stolen  me  kiss; 
But,  faith,  and  IVe  niver  gone  mad  over  it! 
The  further  I've  thraveled  away  from  the 

shore 

The  tighter  I've  held  on  to  that  and  to  this, 
And,  och!  but  I've  had  me  eye  open  a  bit ! 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  SISTERHOOD 

T  'VE  knocked  about  the  Sivin  Seas, 

I've  thraveled  long  and  thraveled  light, 
From  Cardiff  down  to  Carib  keys, 

From  Shanghai  round  to  Benin  Bight. 

From  Rotterdam  to  'Frisco  Bay, 

From  Bristol  clear  to  Singapore, 
I've  swung  and  sung  and  had  me  way 

Wid  wimmen  that  I'll  see  no  more. 

In  fjord,  atoll  and  harbor  town, 

Far  North,  and  far  beyont  the  Line, 

I've  had  thim,  black  and  white  and  brown — 
And  shpeakin'  iv'ry  tongue  but  mine! 

Aye,  kissin'  back  wid  furrin  words 

I'd  niver  know  the  meanin'  of, 
And  cooin'  soft  loike  shleepy  birds 

Wid  lips  so  tired  and  full  av  love! 

65 


Irish  Poems 


But,  white  or  black  or  brown,  I  knew 
Not  wanst  their  hathen  tongue  or  name 

Yet  in  the  end  I've  found  it's  thrne 
Most  iv'ry  woman  weeps  the  same! 


66 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  WAY  WIDSINGIN' 

t\-\ITH,  niver  the  sail  calls  the  frith-wind, 

Nor  the  turf  comethers  the  rain; 
And  niver  the  Fairy-Thorn  frets  for  the  spring, 

Or  the  brae  for  the  summer  again! 
And  niver  a  boreen  can  ask  for  a  bird, 

Or  beg  for  a  whin-chat's  strain! 

Not  took  from  me  head  are  these  planxties; 

These  chunes  they  are  nothin'  av  men! 
They  come  as  the  whin-chat  comes  in  spring 

And  the  grackle-thrush  back  to  the  glen ! 
They  come  loike  the  rain  to  the  turf,  me  lad, 

And  the  Saints  know  how  and  when! 


Irish  Poems 


MOTHER    IRELAND 

A   TRUE  and  dark-eyed  Mother  Land,  ye've 
•*  ^      mourned  thim  day  be  day, 
The  childer'  av  your  achin'  breast  who've  fared 

a  world  away! 
Be  moorland   and  be   lough   and  whin,   ye've 

mourned  for  all  your  lost, 
But  still   ye've  smiled  and  still  ye've  watched 

and  counted  not  the  cost! 

And  dark,  in  faith,  the  ould  hours  fell  and  cold 
the  ashes  grew, 

But  Ireland,  Mother  Ireland,  still  ye've  waited 
fond  and  thrue; 

And  now  the  Night  has  vanished,  wid  the  sor 
rows  it  has  known, 

We'll  hear  the  call  av  Ireland,  lads,  av  Ireland 
to  her  own! 


68 


Arthur  Stringer 


LOST  SONGS 

AROO,  but  there's  singin'  I've  struck  up 
Wid  niver  a  note  to  be  heard, 
When  me  heart  widout  sthirrin'  the  silence 
Shtood  by  me  and  sang  like  a  bird! 

So  if  all  the  ould  dreams  that  escaped  me 
Were  sung  to  the  chunes  that  got  free, 

I'd  be  weavin'  ye  rainbows  av  rapture 
And  shamin'  the  thrush,  ma-chree! 

But  och,  'tis  the  birds  that  are  ailin', 
Bide  close  by  our  coaxin'  and  sing; 

'Tis  the  music  worth  housin'  and  keepin' 
Foriver  makes  off  on  the  wingt 


Irish  Poems 


WIMMEN  FOLK 

/TVIME  was  I  thought  av  wimmen,  sure, 
As  made  to  reverince,  limb  be  limb; 
As  something  holy-like  and  pure 

Thro'  all  the  snow  white  length  av  thim! 

I  dreamed  av  gerrls  as  angels,  lad, 

Wid  all  their  wistful  holy  ways, 
To  leave  you  thremblin'  when  ye'd  had 

A  word  wid  thim     ...     in  oulder  days  I 

But  now  I've  learned  me  topsail  lore 
And  roved  the  sea  from  rim  to  rim, 

I  seldom  wait  and  quake  before 

The  soft  and  snow  white  length  av  thim ! 

For  when  gerrls  love  you  well,  me  lad, 
They're  thrue  to  nayther  law  nor  letther; 

'Tis  when  they're  most  disheartenin1  bad 
Ye'll  learn  to  love  such  angels  bettherf 

70 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  THROUBLIN'  THINGS 

T^AITH,  linnets  are  a  throuble,  lad; 

They  must  be  screened  an*  fed, 
An*  sunned  beyont  your  cabin  door, 
An1  carried  back  to  bed! 

Faith,  love  it  is  a  burthen,  gerrl; 

'Tis  iver  give  an1  take; 
Aye,  knowin1  how  ye  give  too  much 

An'  niver  count  the  ache ! 

Och,  childer,'  ma'am,  are  worrisome, 

An'  fret  an'  throuble  fall 
On  wimmen  whin  their  childer'  come; 

They  have  no  peace  at  all ! 

But  song  an'  love  an1  childer' ',  faith, 
These  things  you're  gettin'  free, 
These  things  you've  held  to  pest  ye  so, 
Are  th'  things  ye  II  find  can  rest  ye  so, 
Are  th'  things  ye' II  mind  have  blest  ye  so, 
Whin  you're  as  ould  as  me! 

7' 


Irish  Poems 


THE  OULD  WORLD'S  WAY 

CURE,  many's  the  sailorin'  lad 
^  Went  singin'  and  rockin'  free 
Out  over  the  Ocean's  rim 

As  happy  as  us,  machree! 
But  many's  the  time,  me  lad — 

Such  ends  the  ould  world  brings — 
That  over  the  laugh  and  last  av  him 

'Tis  the  sea  that  rocks  and  swings! 

And  many's  the  boy  wid  a  plough 

Who'd  sing  at  the  break  av  day 
As  he  turned  the  mold  wid  his  share 

And  buried  the  grass  away! 
But  many's  the  same  lad,  now 

That  sootherin'  greensward  won, 
And  over  his  gray  bones  there 

'Tis  the  grass  that  sings  in  the  sun! 


72 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  SEEKERS 

Says  She: 
fTMS  a  long  way  yeVc  thravcled,  me  thruc 

love, 

Tis  a  long  thrip  ye've  made  on  the  sea, 
For  the  sake  av  a  shlip  av  a  gerrl  loike  me, 
For  a  bit  av  a  kiss 
No  betther  than  this — 
Tis  a  long  road  ye've  thravcled,  Machree! 

Says  He: 

'Twas  a  long  way  and  lone  way,  Mavournecn, 
But  it's  millions  av  miles,  as  He  knows, 
That  a  hungerin',  wanderin'  sunbeam  goes 

To  be  gettin'  a  kiss 

No  warmer  than  this 
From  the  lips  av  no  sweeter  a  rose  I 


73 


Irish  Poems 


POSSESSION 


T  CAGED  me  wanst  a  lark  and  let  him  go! 
I  caught  me  wanst  a  squirr'l  and  set  him 

free! 

I  left  a  Galway  colleen  sobbin'  low, 
And  off  I  wint  to  sea, 
Aye,  off  I  wint  to  sea! 

II 

IVe  had  me  turn  at  things,  and  now  I'm  old; 
But  those  I've  lost  shtand  most  bewilderin' 

near! 

And  those  I  loved  and  niver  dreamed  to  hold 
I've  kept  this  many  a  year, 
In  faith,  this  many  a  year! 


74 


Arthur  Stringer 


NOREEN  OF  BALLYBREE 

T  SAILED  in  me  fine  new  hooker 

To  Ballybree,  over  the  bay, 
Where  Noreen  O'Regen,  me  ould  love, 
Is  livin'  this  many  a  day. 

('Twas  Noreen  took  up  wid  a  poacher, 
A  Ballybree  blade  called  Neal, 

Wid  niver  a  ham  nor  a  hare-skin 

But  what  the  poor  habbage  could  steal!) 

And  Noreen  I  found,  faith,  wid  childer' 
As  thick  as  the  hairs  on  a  goat, 

All  squealin'  and  crowdin'  like  rabbits 
While  I  showed  her  me  jule  av  a  boat! 

"But  have  ye  no  wife  nor  childer*  ?" 
Says  she,  wid  a  perk  av  the  head, 

(And  her  bosom  as  flat  as  a  deck-board, 
And  her  brats  all  squealin'  for  bread!) 

75 


Irish  Poems 


4lOch,  sailinY'  says  she,  "may  be  sailin', 
But  when  it's  all  shpoken  and  done, 

'Tis  us  wid  our  fine  homes  and  child er* 
Are  livin'  and  havin'  our  fun!" 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  PRIDE  OF  ERIN 

SO  she  says,  lad,  she'd  only  take  up  wid  a 
man 
Who  was  wan  av  the  best,  faith,  the  crame  av 

the  clan, 
And  the  pride  av  the  counthry  and  salt  av  the 

earth? 
So  she's  leavin'   you,   lad,   not   knowin'   your 

worth, 
And  she  holds  she  can't  mate  wid  a  Kerry  like 

you, 
Since  she's  plannin'  to  take  on  wid  blood  that 

is  blue! 

And  the  Divil  go  wid  her,  but  couldn't  she  see 
You'd  the  blood   av  O'Gorman,   Fitzpatrick, 

Magee? 
And  the  stock  that  is  first  in  both  fightin'  and 

work, 
From  the  line  av  O'Brien  and  Kelly  and  Burke? 

—From  O'Failev,  O'Dailey,  O'Reily,  O'Neil 
To    O'Connell,    O'Cooney,    O'Shea    and 
O'Sheil ! 

77 


Irish  Poems 


McCaffray,   McCurchy,   McCarroll,   Mc- 

Cann, 

All  rulers  and  fighters  since  fightin'  began! 
O'Leary,  O'Farrell,  O'Carroll,  O'Kane, 
McCormack,   McGurly,   McManus,    Mc- 

Shane, 
And    Gorman,    Fitzpatrick    and    Fightin* 

McGirr, 
And  iv'ry  last  man  av  thim  betther  than 

her! 


So  she  says  you're  no  betther  than  Irish,  me 

lad,   ' 
But  a  counthry-bred,  swine-drivin'  fenian,  be- 

dad! 
The  whiffet!  the  upshtart!  the  meal-fed  boo- 

thoon! 

And  could  she  be  tellin',  though  fed  on  a  spoon, 
The   crame    av   the   world    from    ould    Brian 

Boru? 
Faith,  how  could  she  hope  for  a  Kerry  like 

you? — 
With  the  pride  av  your  sivin  ould  kings  in  your 

veins, 
Wid  your  mother  O'Toole,  and  your  sire  av 

McShanes? 

78 


Arthur  Stringer 


Wid  your  ancistry  iv'ry  wan  wcarirT  his  crown, 
From  Rhu  and  O'Brien  to  Big  Hollcran  down! 

—From  O'Failey,  O'Dailey,  O'Rcily,  O'Neil 
To    O'Connell,    O'Cooney,    O'Shea    and 

O'Shcil! 
McCaffray,   McCurchy,   McCarroll,   Mc- 

Cun, 
McClone    and    McCoy — and   kings    iv'ry 

one! 

O'Leary,  O'Farrell,  O'Carroll,  O'Kane, 
McCormack,    McGurly,   McManus,   Mc- 

Shane, 
And   Tagon  O'Regen   and   Mighty   Mc- 

Glone, 
The   finest  av  fighters  and  kings   to  the 

bone! 


79 


Irish   Poems 


WIMMEN 

'  I  VHERE  are  wimmcn's  faces,  lad, 

That  are  wind  and  fire, 
Shtirrin'  up  the  whole  world, 
Wakin'  ould  desire! 

And  there's  other  wimmen,  faith, 
Calm  and  shtill  through  all, 

Shtickin'  to  their  wan  love 
Till  the  hivens  fall ! 

Wan's  as  foine  as  hell  fire; 

Wan's  as  thrue  as  life! 
W an  ye'll  leave  and  weep  for, 

And  wan  ye'll  take  as  wife! 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  SIRENS 

FTEN  in  the  night-time  I  can  hear  thim 

callin'  me, 
Callin',  cailin'  shweeter  than  a  woman  to  her 

love, 
In  acrosst  the  city  wid  its  sthreets  av  brick  and 

stone, 
Wid    its    roarin'    wheels   below    and    thrailin' 

shmoke  above; 
Through  the  crowded  places  I  can  shmell  the 

open  Sea 
And  I  hear  her  sirens  callin',  callin'  for  their 

own  I 

I  can  wake  and  hear  thim  boomin'  thro'  the 

harbor  rain, 
Hear  thim  thro'  the  river-fog  where   yellow 

lantherns  burn; 
At  the  break  av  mornin'  I  can  hear  thim  growl 

and  cough, 
Till  I  see  the  bone-white  deck  and  shmokin' 

funnel  plain, 

81 


Irish  Poems 


Till  I  see  the  shlappin',  lappin'  harbor-wather 

churn 
Round  the   rusty  side-plates  and  the  lighters 

crowdin'  off! 

Faith,  I  know  then  I  must  go  and  take  the  End 
less  Thrail, 
For  the  shtreets  become  a  throuble  and  all  life 

becomes  a  fret 
And  the  city  seems  a  prison  built  av  sthone  and 

stheel — 
But  there's  manhood  in  the  facin',  racin'  av  a 

gale 
Wid  the  dippin',  drippin'  hawse-holes  and  the 

decks  a-reel ! 
For  the  Sea  is  like  a  woman  that  you'll  ne'er 

forget, 
And  she's  callin'  thro'  the  night-time,  callin' 

thro'  the  dawn — 
And  Pm  goin*  to  know  her  last  kiss  before  me 

life  is  gone! 


82 


Arthur  String rr 


THE  DISCOVERY 

'T^HE  lee  and  the  long  av  it  now  that  yc're 

through 

Seems  under  the  sun  ye  can  find  nothin'  new — 
So  faith,  I'll  be  whisperin'  what  ye  might  do. 

Go  study  some  colleen's  cometherin'  eye, 

And  whin  ye  have  banthered  and  blarnied  her 

thry 
A  flattherin'  sadness,  a  bit  av  a  sigh. 

And  whin  ye  have  found  that  she's  taken  wid 

you, 

Faith,  whether  ye  laugh  or  whether  ye  rue, 
Ye'll  go  the  same  way  your  betthers  all  do! 

Ye'll  come  to  your  sinses,  me  solemn  gossoon, 
And  drunk  wid  the  wine  av  some  warm  night 

in  June, 
Ye'll  be  kissin'   her  mouth  and  watchin'   the 

moon! 


Irish  Poems 


And  under  the  sun,  faith,  nothin'  is  new — 
But  under  that  moon  ye'll  find  that  it's  thrue 
There's  stranger   ould  wonders   thin  iver  ye 
knew! 


84 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  DANCING  DAYS 

IS  a  year  and  a  day  back  to  Kindrec 
Where  the  gerrls  had  no  shoes  to 

their  feet! 
Tis  many  a  mile  to  the  ould  town 

Where    the    childer'    wanst    danced    in    the 
street  I 

Here's  bread  to  be  had  for  the  breakin'; 

Here's  moilin'  and  frettin'  and  froth! 
But  thinkin'  av  Home,  how  me  heart's  blood 

Must  jig  like  a  wave  o'  Lake  Roth! 

Av  Home,  och,  where  down  thro1  the   ould 

street 

Wid  his  pipin'  went  Ragged  MacGee- 
And  faith,  how  the  colleens  thrailed  round  at 

his  heels 
And  all  jigged  like  the  leaves  av  a  tree! 

85 


Irish  Poems 


The  walls  were  a  tumble  av  stone-heaps, 
The  skim-milk  wid  wather  was  thinned, 

And    the    thatch    it    was    broken    and    moss- 
grown— 
But  we  danced  like  the  grass  in  the  wind! 

Not  worth  a  traneen  was  the  village, 
But  no  wan  was  sthoppin'  to  fret — 

And  I'll   wager  they're  gain*  like  a   tree-top 

today, 
Faith,  dancin*  and  starvin'  there  yet! 


86 


Arthur  Stringer 


BY  THE  SEA- WALL 

should  nivcr  have  walked  to  the  ould 

sea-wall 

And  hearkened  the  ould  grey  Sea; 
We  should  niver  have  watched  the  Southern 

Cross, 
That  new-found  love  and  me ! 

I  should  niver  have  left  that  bamboo  room 
Wid  its  scent  and  its  winkin'  lamp 

And  walked  thro'  the  sthill  av  the  Tropic  night 
Where  the  Thrades  blew  warm  and  dampl 

I  should  niver  have  watched  the  ould  tides  swim 
Wid  their  shimmerin'  glimmerin'  glow 

That  led  me  back  to  my  lost  Thrue  Love 
And  the  hills  av  long  ago! 

I  should  niver  have  turned  to  think  or  dream 

Av  that  Thrue  Love  lost  to  me, 
And  the  ways  I  went  for  my  Thrue  Love's  sake 

Who  niver  my  love  would  be! 

8? 


Irish  Poems 


And  that  brown-armed  shlip  av  an  Island  gerrl 

Should  niver  have  let  me  go 
Where  the  winds  av  the  East  came  lashin'  up 

And  the  ould  Sea  whispered  low! 

For  the  wind  and  the  palm  and  the  throubled 
surf 

They  tould  me  as  plain  as  day: 
"Ye're  kissin'  a  ghost  in  a  world  av  ghosts 

And  your  Thrue  Love's  worlds  away!" 

For  whiniver  I  watched  the  ould  sad  stars 
I  could  see  but  me  Thrue  Love's  eyes — 

And  the  love  that  has  swept  and  kept  a  man 
Is  niver  the  love  he  buys ! 

So  the  warmth  went  out  av  me  wonderin'  heart 

And  we  kissed  no  more  at  all, 
That  gerrl  wid  the  painted  mouth  and  me 

As  we  sat  on  the  ould  sea-wall ! 


88 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  EVENING  UP 

VT7HIN  Shamus  O'Regen  was  sellin'  me  hay, 

And  as  sheuch-rank  as  iver  was  mowed, 

He'd  seat  his  gerrl  Moira,  for  such  was  his 

way, 
On  the  top  av  his  thimble-rig  load. 

And  he'd  bring  me  his  scrapin's  av  thistle  and 
whin, 

And  I'd  take  thim  wid  niver  a  word; 
But  I'd  hold  for  a  breath,  as  the  cart  jolted  in, 

Moira's  hand,  that  was  soft  as  a  bird. 

For  Moira  was  wishtful  and  white  as  the  May, 
And  her  eyes  they  would  throuble  your  heart 

Till  any  ould  bramble  seemed  special  fine  hay 
Wid  her  face  at  the  top  av  the  cart. 

Yet  me  horse  and  me  cattle  wint  lean  as  a  kite, 
Wid  their  feedin'  on  Shamus's  hay, 

And  I'd  figure  me  loss  to  a  rick  over-night — 
But,  in  faith,  I  had  nothin'  to  say. 


Irish  Poems 


For,  Moira  and  me,  we  secretly  met 
At  the  end  av  ould  Ballybree  Wall, 

And  she  gave  me  the  word  that  soon  made  me 

forget 
I'd  ivtr  been  cheated  at  all! 


90 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  WISE  MAN 


has  a  book-shelf 
Stacked  amazin'  high! 
Michael  reads  in  sivin  tongues 
Wid  a  rheumy  eye  1 

Faith,  he's  called  a  wise  man, 
Readin'  half  the  night; 

Delvin'  into  stoodjous  things 
Betther  kept  from  sight! 

Michael  spends  a  Spring  day 
Squintin'  o'er  a  script  — 

Michael  niver  kisst  a  gerrl 
Warm  and  rosy-lipped! 

Faith,  I've  studied  long,  now, 
Wimmen  and  their  ways  — 

And  judgin'  where  it's  took  me 
Thim  were  stoodjous  days! 

9' 


Irish  Poems 


Little  rote  I've  learnt  me, 
Little  have  I  read — 

But  I  know  a  thing  or  two 
Not  in  Michael's  head! 


92 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE   END 

WAN  touch  av  lip  to  lip  it  seemed 
Would  ease  and  end  desire; 
Wan  mad  kiss  at  the  most,  I  dreamed, 
Would  quench  the  ache  and  tire. 

When  wishtful-eyed  she  gave  wan  kiss, 

The  touch  I'd  hungered  for, 
The  thrue  end,  faith,  I  saw  was  this: 

Not  wan,  but  fifty  more! 

And  heart  to  heart  she  gave  thim  free, 

Soft  kisses,  day  by  day; 
But  still  some  end  that  throubled  me 

Stood  off  a  world  away! 

And  while  we  yearned  and  ere  we  learned 
We  groped  to  wan  gift  more; 

And  havin'  that,  the  end  was  earned, 
And  Sorrow  shut  the  door! 

93 


Irish  Poems 


THE  OLD  MEN 

'TpHROUGH    the    noise    av    the    crowded 
sthreet 

The  thrappin's  av  sable  crept; 
Where  the  light  av  the  sun  lay  sweet 

The  black-clothed  mourners  stept. 

And  him — who'd  feared  at  the  sight 

Av  coffin  and  hearse  and  sthone, 
He'll  shleep  widout  fear  this  night 

In  the  churchyard  wid  his  own! 

But  och,  at  the  sight  av  his  hearse, 
For  a  breath,  how  we  all  lay  cold 

In  the  gloom  and  the  clutch  and  the  curse 
Av  Death  and  His  drippin'  mould! 

For  a  minute  our  ould  backs  bowed 

Wid  the  weight  av  his  graveyard  clay: 

Then  the  feelin'  passed  off  like  a  cloud 
And  we  wakened  and  went  our  way. 

94 


Arthur  Stringer 


Yet  faix,  now,  I'm  wonderin'  if  Death 
Deep  under  the  loam  and  the  lorn 

Is  throubled,  in  turn,  for  a  breath, 

When  he's  toldt  av  a  child  bein'  born? 


95 


Irish  Poems 


THE  MORNIN'S  MORNIN' 


O'Curran  to  me  wid  a  bitthersome  eye, 
Watchiri  the  wather  that'd  flooded  his  sty, 
And  blinkin'  up  into  a  girlin'  moist  sky: 

"Ochone  and  me  heart  is  that  heavy,  me  lad! 

Aroo,  and  I'll  niver  be  laughin'  again; 
For  the  world  holds  nothin'  but  what's  gone 
bad, 

And  I'm  losin'  me  pigs  wid  the  rain! 

And  I've  worried  it  out  to  the  bitthermost  end; 

I  see  it  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face. 
Och,  we  go  to  our  grave  wid  niver  a  friend— 

And  I'm  tired  av  this  throublesome  place!" 

Says  O'Curran  to  me  wid  a  shmile  and  a  wink 
Afther  I'd  passt  him  me  bit  av  a  drink, 
And  he'd  studied  the  sky  and  shtarted  to  think: 

96 


Arthur  Stringer 


"Sure,  it's  fine  to  be  shtandin'  and  takin'  your 

ease, 

And  watchin  'the  Hivens  fair  rainin'  wid  joy  I 
Faith,  it's  good  to  be  livin'  on  mornin's  like 

these — 
'Tis  a  laughin'  ould  world,  me  boy! 

For  faith,  if  wan  couldn't  be  ailin'  a  bit 
We'd  niver  be  feelin'  the  other  way,  lad; 

We'd  niver  know  joy  and  be  achin'  for  it, 
And  niver  be  jiggin'  and  glad  I" 

And  he  looked  out  at  me  wid  a  chirrupy  eye 
And  I  passt  him  the  bottle  in  over  the  sty 
Where  his  drown'd  pigs  pointed  their  feet  to 
the  sky! 


97 


Irish  Poems 


THE  OLD  HOUND 

\\7"HEN  Shamus  made  shift  wid  a  turf-hut 
He'd  naught  but  a  hound  to  his  name; 
And  whither  he  went  thrailed  the  ould  friend, 
Dog-faithful  and  iver  the  same! 

And  he'd  gnaw  thro'  a  rope  in  the  night-time, 

He'd  eat  thro'  a  wall  or  a  door, 
He'd  shwim  thro'  a  lough  in  the  winther, 

To  be  wid  his  master  wanst  more ! 

And   the   two,    faith,    would   share   their  last 
bannock; 

They'd  share  their  last  callop  and  bone; 
And  deep  in  the  starin'  ould  sad  eyes 

Lean  Shamus  would  stare  wid  his  own! 

And  loose  hung  the  flanks  av  the  ould  hound 
When  Shamus  lay  sick  on  his  bed — 

Ay,  waitin'  and  watching  wid  sad  eyes 
Where  he'd  eat  not  av  bone  or  av  bread! 
98 


Arthur  Stringer 


But  Shamus  be  Spring-time  grew  betther, 
And  a  throuble  came  into  his  mind; 

And  he'd  take  himself  off  to  the  village 
And  be  leavin'  his  hound  behind! 

And  deep  was  the  whine  av  the  ould  dog 
Wid  a  love  that  was  deeper  than  life— 

But  be  Michaelmas,  faith,  it  was  whispered 
That  Shamus  was  takin'  a  wife ! 

A  wife  and  a  fine  house  he  got  him; 

In  a  shay  he  went  drivin'  around; 
And  I  met  him  be  chance  at  the  Cross  Roads 

And  I  says  to  him:  "How's  the  ould  hound?" 

"Me  wife  niver  took  to  that  ould  dog," 

Says  he  wid  a  shrug  av  his  slats, 
"So  we've  got  us  a  new  dog  from  Galway, 

And  och,  he's  the  divil  for  rats!" 


99 


Irish  Poems 


SAYS  OLD  DOCTOR  MA'GINN 

T  F  the  Diviltry  mixed  wid  Man 
Is  leavin'  us  far  from  good, 
Faith,  let  us  be  honest  at  least,  me  lad, 
As  Divil  or  Saint  we  should ! 

And  though  few  av  us  walk  the  path 
That  the  Holier  Men  have  trod, 

To  be  fair  wid  the  Sinner  as  well  as  the  Saint 
Is  keepin'  in  touch  wid  God ! 


100 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  FO'CASTLE  SAGE 

IE'LL  watch  for  the  palms  thro*  the  dusk, 

And  ye'll  come  to  a  hill-side  av  light, 
And  ye'll  sniff  at  a  stray  scent  av  musk 
And  be  stealin'  off  land'ard  at  night! 


Y 


Ye'll  be  crowdin'  past  hathen  and  hoor 
And  convarsin'  wid  wimmen,  me  lad; 

And  the  quicker  they  seem  to  allure, 
The  slower  ye'll  reason  they're  bad! 

But  beware  av  the  bantherin'  lip, 
And  beware  av  the  moitherin'  eye; 

And  beware  av  the  olive-brown  slip 
That  sings  as  a  lad  goes  by! 

And  take  heed,  for  the  sake  av  your  soul, 
Av  the  song  the  city  may  sing; 

And  beware  av  the  midnight  bowl, 
And  the  touch  av  the  trailin'  wing  I 
101 


Irish  Poems 


Stand  off  from  the  hive  av  the  Bad; 

Keep  back  from  the  drip  av  the  comb; 
And  take  thought  av  your  luck,  me  lad, 

Wid  the  whole  clean  Sea  for  a  home! 

For,  on  land  'tis  all  throubles  begin; 

And  your  home  'tis  on  wather  and  brine, 
And  not  in  their  harbours  av  Sin, 

Wid  their  music  and  laughin'  and  wine! 

So  take  heed  by  what  happened  to  me, 
And  if  ye're  for  keepin'  from  harm, 

Stick  close  to  your  ship  and  the  Sea, 

Where  there's  nothin'  but  wather  and  storm  I 


102 


'Arthur  Stringer 


THE  WEARING  OF  THE  GREEN 


wearin'  av  the  green,  boys, 
Beneath  their  English  rose; 
We're  wearin'  av  the  deeper  green 
That  Home  and  Ireland  knows! 

The  green  av  holm  and  bogland, 
The  green  av  lough  and  lake, 

The  green  that  takes  us  back  again 
And  brings  the  olden  ache! 

The  green  av  Aran  wathers, 
The  green  av  Rathlin  waves, 

The  green  av  all  the  hills  av  Home, 
And  the  green  av  Ireland's  graves! 


103 


Irish  Poems 


MOISTY  WEATHER 

/  I  AHESE,  in  faith,  are  Irish  days, 

Days  av  rain  and  days  av  haze; 
Misty,  moisty,  spit  and  drool; 
Iv'ry  street-turn  wid  its  pool; 
Iv'ry  hedge  and  thatch  a-drip; 
Wather,  sure,  to  float  a  ship! 

Not  a  boreen,  not  a  brick, 

Not  a  road,  and  not  a  rick, 

Not  a  throat,  and  not  a  sty, 

Ye'll  find,  this  day,  in  Ireland  dry! 

— And  all  the  hay-crop  's  goin'  bad, 

But  what  can  laugh  like  wather,  lad? 


104 


Arthur  Stringer 


WINGS 

I 

T  TAMED  me  wanst  a  wee  bird 

Taken  from  the  rain; 
I  warmed  it  by  me  turf-fire 
And  it  grew  strong  again. 
"And  Hiven  help,"  says  I,  "the  cat 
That  harms  a  wee  soft  thing  like  that!1 

No  hurt  nor  harm  came  to  it 

Close  behind  me  wall, 
But  wan  fine  day  in  April 

I  heard  a  wood-thrush  call; 
And  as  I  watched  me  startled  bird, 
Faith,  off  it  went  widout  a  wordl 

II 

I  reared  me  wanst  a  wee  gerrl 

As  gentle  as  the  May; 
I  kept  her  from  the  cold  world, 

I  watched  her  in  her  play: 
105 


Irish  Poems 


"Gawd  help  the  shtreel  who'd  iver  try 
To  take  that  gerrl  from  me!"  says  I. 

And  yestereve  I  watched  her 

Go  creepin'  through  the  gate, 
And,  hidin'  like  a  white  hare, 

Beyont  the  lough-head  wait: 
And  when  I  spoke,  "I'm  off,"  says  she, 
"To  wed  the  lad  who's  'waitin*  me 
And  matin  me  across  the  Sea!" 


106 


Arthur  Stringer 


THE  WIFE 

OH,  Muther,  Muther,  sure  ye'll  mind  the 
madness  av  it  all ! 
Ye'll  mind  I  had  no  shmile  for  him,  no  eye  for 

him  at  all! 
Och,  Muther,  I  was  mad  wid  love  for  laughin' 

Kindree  Tim; 

I'd  given  up  me  sobbin'  lips  and  all  me  heart 
to  him ! 

And  Shamus  was  a  dour  man; 
And  och,  he  seemed  a  sour  man; 
"And  yon,"  says  I,  when  first  I  sent  him  on  his 

way  again, 

Wid  all  his  sad  and  patient  eyes  so  clouded  up 
wid  pain, 

"Faith,  yon's  a  cold  man, 
And  yon's  an  old  man, 

And  I'm   for  warrm  and  laughin'  ways,   and 
I'm  forlovin'  Tim!" 

The  way  wid  life  and  lovin'  sure  ye'll  niver 

learn  at  school; 
It  seldom  goes  be  raison,  and  it  niver  goes  be 

rule! 

107 


Irish  Poems 


Twas  half  wid  pity,  Muther,  half  wid  pique 

at  struttin'  Tim, 
I  let  dour  Shamus  speak  the  word  that  bound 

me  up  wid  him. 
Widout  a  thrill  av  rapture  and  widout  a  throb 

av  hope, 
I  took  him  for  me  wedded  mate — him,  solemn 

as  a  Pope, 
Ay,  him  widout  a  chune  or  laugh,  and  wid  his 

solemn  way; 
He  took  me  from  ye,  Muther,  and  off  across 

The  Bay,— 

And  och  the  bitther  tears 
And  the  thought  av  empty  years 
And  sobbin'  that  I'd  rather  die  than  face  an 
other  day! 

I've  borne  him  childer',  Muther,  and  I've  been 

an  honest  wife; 
We've  had  our  thrials  together,  faith,  our  ups 

and  downs  wid  life; 
I've  minded  what  ye  tolt  me,  Muther,  kept  me 

throubles  still, 
And  bent  me  way  to  Shamus's  and  made  his 

wish  me  will — 
But  here's  the  wonder  av  it !    Muther,  Muther, 

tell  me  why 

108 


Arthur  Slrim/cr 


The  mid-day  love  grows  stronger   when  the 
mornin'  love  must  die, 

The  solemn  love  grows  dearer  when  the  mad 
der  love  goes  by? 

For  here  I'm  waitin'  like  a  gerrl  to  hear  me 
Shamus  call, 

Ay,  here  I'm  waitin'  for  the  man  who's  now 
me  all  in  all, 

And  when  I  see  him  throubled  sure  it  cuts  me 
like  a  knife — 

And  faith  it's  not  a  sad  world, 
And  sure  it's  not  a  mad  world, 

For  I  love  him,  Muther,  Muther,  och,  I  love 
him  more  than  life! 


109 


Irish  Poems 


BARNEY  CREEGAN 

TTERE'S  to  you,  Barney  Creegan, 

Where  iver  ye  may  be ; 
And  Hivin  knows  ye've  thravelled 
Be  many  a  land  and  sea! 

We've  et  and  drunk  together, 

We've  known  our  ups  and  downs, 

We've  seen  our  heap  av  throubles, 
And  we've  worn  our  fadin'  crowns! 

Ye'd  steal  a  kiss,  or  ham-bone, 

Ye'd  rob  a  grave  wid  joy; 
And  a  shirr'd  egg  stand's  the  only  thing 

Ye'd  niver  poach,  me  boy! 

Ye're  twinty  times  a  blagyard; 

Your  worldly  goods  ye've  spent — 
But  rip  and  thief  and  ne'er-do-well, 

Ye  knew  what  Friendship  meant! 

And  if  ye  stick  to  me,  still, 

As  I  have  stuck  to  you, 
Faith,  Barney  Creegan,  friends  'we'll  be 

Until  the  shamrock's  blue! 
no 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UHKARY 


